Off the Beaten Path
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, accidents happen-and even Marine snipers have near misses. Pure crack!fic. Jenny/Jethro, and a little bedroom mishap.


_A/N: __This little tale of a sex mishap utterly re-defines the term "Crack!fic" and I've no excuse for it but to say it was born of a bad joke and an awful night at work after which I cheered myself up by writing fanfiction at 3 in the morning._

_"No suit with a tight sphincter is getting in my way, and that includes you, Jen!" -Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Season 3 Episode "Kill Ari, Part 1"._

_I'm rating this M even though there is no explicit content; it's M for subject matter and really bad puns._

* * *

She stared at him, her hair tangled and framing her pale face, her eyes wide and a brightly abashed green. Her soft white sheets were wrapped around her naked body, and she was _staring_ at him, her lips parted a little—she seemed panicked.

He stared back, a little bewildered, a little contrite, but mostly exasperated. It had all happened to so quickly—well, he'd figured it out immediately, if she'd just given him a _second_ to back off—but she _hadn't_ and she was sitting in that armchair _staring_ at him with that dazed look like he'd dropped a piano on her head and his pride was seriously wounded because he couldn't remember a time when sex had ever ended with Jenny on a completely different side of the bed, much less the whole damn _room_.

He thought she might even be down the stairs if she hadn't tripped over the sheet she'd so unceremoniously _ripped_ with her off the bed and basically fallen headfirst into the armchair.

She blinked.

He raised an eyebrow hesitantly and rubbed his jaw, flexing his hand.

"It was an accident," he said gruffly, his tone mildly apologetic.

"No," was all she said, narrowing her eyes.

"What?!" he asked, incredulous. She didn't think he'd purposely-?!

"_No_," she repeated darkly. "_Accident,_" she scoffed suspiciously.

"It _was_ an _accident_," he insisted, growling at her.

"You aren't sixteen," she retorted, her voicing going up several octaves. She winced, pursing her lips warily. "How many times have we had sex?" she asked suddenly, attacking him.

"I don't know—"

"Innumerable times, Jethro. _Innumerable_," she enunciated tightly. "We aren't fumbling high-schoolers. We know what we're doing; there are no accidents—and _that_ isn't an accident," she hissed, lowering her voice fussily, "it can't—it doesn't—_it doesn't happen accidentally!" _

He decided not to mention the fact that _innumerable_ was a stupid word to use in this situation, but he did decide to glare at her.

"It didn't even _happen_," he pointed out.

"It _almost_ happened!" she retorted, alarmed.

He stifled down the urge to laugh at the look on her face; laughing would be the worst possible thing he could do to her right now. She hugged her sheet closer and still looked at him like a deer in the headlights—a very _indignant_ deer.

He sighed in frustration.

"Relax, Jenny," he growled.

"That would make it easier, wouldn't it?" she fired back tartly, her lashes quivering nervously.

He flinched and scowled at her.

"It. Was. An. _Accident_," he reiterated, pronouncing each syllable slowly. He rolled his eyes, starting to feel a little awkward, and cocked an eyebrow. "You really think I'd go there without asking you—"

"You will _never_ go there with me," she interrupted, her face as serious as the grave.

He stumbled over his words.

"That's—okay…Jen, I don't want—to, but—"

"NEVER," she nearly shouted, a hysterical note hitting her usually silky and calm voice.

She lifted her chin primly.

"If you want it, you can call a hooker. I give you my blessing. It can be a sex tax write-off," the redhead told him flat-out.

"Dammit, Jen," he swore, glaring at her with more pronounced discomfort. "I don't want a damn _hooker_—I wasn't tryin' to go…_there_ with you; it was an accident, I—" he broke off sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Got distracted," he muttered.

She looked at him starkly, clearly in disbelief at the idea that he'd been so _distracted_ that he _completely_ forgot the basics of her anatomical layout. He realized she was silently demanding he explain himself and he glared at her, throwing a hand out accusingly.

"You _moved_!" he barked. "I thought you wanted on top, then you got on your knees—"

"And you just took that as an _open invitation_—"

"No," he interrupted hoarsely, giving her a pained, affronted look. "I didn't think that, I—I," he stuttered, and then came out with the worst excuse possible: "I _missed_!"

She blinked at him, her cheeks flushing, and then she bit her lip and winced, her eyes slowly boring into his. She puckered her lips in an unforgiving pout and narrowed her eyes.

"You were a _sniper_," was all she said.

The '_you don't miss'_ was implied.

He glared at her sheepishly—he _was_ starting to feel sixteen, like some inexperienced punk who'd thought he was playing it cool when he reached between a girl's legs and was swatted away. The incident had been uncharted and jarring—for Jenny, _apparently_—but he really had realized promptly that he was, er, _off the beaten path,_ so to speak, and he gripped her thighs to try and remedy that—but she'd been out of bed and across the room in the bat of an eyelid.

Gibbs had never seen Jenny move so quickly, and that was _including_ the time they'd been indecent in a confessional in Paris and the Monseigneur had been about to bust them.

He made an annoyed noise and glared at her.

"I swear, Jen," he growled firmly. "Didn't mean to."

She glared back at him warily, a little of the startled panic fading from her emerald eyes.

Gibbs rubbed his jaw again, smirking a little—still managing a mix of sheepish repentance and suppressed amusement. He lifted his shoulders, his tongue in his cheek, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Wouldn't try it without askin'," he said wryly. "Wasn't raised in a barn."

"_That_ is the most _un_-funny thing you have _ever_ said to me."

She shifted and lowered her tense shoulders, tossing her head and blowing hair out of her face. She frowned, looking at him intently, and then flicked her eyes to his lips and the column of his throat—she _was_ overreacting a _little_; he hadn't hurt her, and he _had_ backed off the minute she'd shouted: _what the fuck are you doing, Jethro!_

She flared her nostrils.

"You _swear_ it was an accident?"

"Yeah," he agreed, rolling his eyes. "Cross my heart," he swore sarcastically. "Come back to bed."

She accepted that he was being honest; he hadn't meant to make her uncomfortable—but she was so utterly _not_ in the mood that the thought of snuggling back up in bed (or doing God knew what else) was _unappealing_ to say the least.

They were adults and they knew how to handle adult situations, but she decided she was done being _adult_ with him right now.

She shook her head.

"I would rather we watch a movie," she retorted prudishly. "I would also like you to sit on the opposite side of the couch."

"_Jenny_," he growled, annoyed.

"You may pick the movie," she said, refusing to budge.

He cocked his head smugly. She gave him a threatening look and, deciding he was about to tease her and make here blush and want to hide her head, changed her mind.

"No," she asserted. "We're going to watch something _wholesome_," she said pointedly, glaring at him _again_. "_Pride and Prejudice_."

He nearly threw himself into a tantrum on the floor. This night had spiraled into disaster far too quickly—and all because he'd misunderstood the position she wanted and _missed_ and had her thinking for a split second that he was about to take the, ah, road less travelled—

-and she was busy thinking _Pride and Prejudice_ was a great choice because she was damn sure nothing untoward ever happened in the boudoir of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.

He gave her a curt nod of agreement, even if it meant he really was acquiescing to sitting with a good religious amount of space between them so she could get over her little trauma.

She stood, draped fetchingly in the sheet, and he got out of her bed and yanked his jeans on without bothering with his boxers. He followed her out of the bedroom and—because he was a bastard and he thought it was funny, he stealthily snuck up behind her and touched her hips, coaxing her backwards.

She squealed and leapt away, whirling around to face him with wide eyes. He smirked, the mirth reaching his blue eyes and she swatted at him weakly, while he watched the hysteria die down again and fade to mild amusement.

"Jen," he said affectionately, putting his hand on the crown of her hair and running is hand through her hair soothingly.

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Sex _tax_ write-off?" he mocked, quoting her panicked words, and she smiled sheepishly, a blush painting her cheeks.

He was probably never going to live down claiming that he'd _missed,_ but at least he had the opportunity to bring _that_ up every time she claimed she _wasn't in the mood_.

* * *

_I'll leave it up to YOU to figure out what went wrong ;)_

_-Alexandra  
__story #103_


End file.
